New
by theshadowswhisper
Summary: And sometimes, he just tugs on your heart and makes you want to say things that would totally make you look gay. Stan/Kyle.
1. Waking Up Sucks Balls

**Yeah, I'm still working on my other story but this just kind of came out and so I'm posting it. Should I continue? Let me know.**

When you first notice it, it's a tiny sprinkle of pressure in your chest. It's gone in less than a second; you swear you only imagined it. But for some reason, you replay it a thousand times in your head that same night, secretly enjoying the tickling sensation the strange pressure causes.

The strange pressure becomes a breathless fluttering when he surprises you, taking you into a full, hard hug that lasts half a second too long and causes your heart to do a funny, stuttering sort of halt. You feel dazed, but in a good way after this. It's the first time he's ever done that, and you kind of think you've been missing out.

It's almost every day now that he finds a new way to make heat creep across your skin and the funny quivering in your nervous system to all but take the breath from your lungs. Sometimes, all it takes is the cheery "hey" he sends your way when you pass in the hall ways, or a tiny brush of contact against your leg when he sits next to you in the cafeteria. You feel like you should be resisting the way you are impatient, always to see him again, (he's your best friend; it's never very long that you two are apart) but it's almost impossible. You don't even want to. In a scary way, even the way he makes you nervous _feels good_.

You like the way he walks, you realize, watching him as he goes up to sharpen his pencil in Calculus class. You like the way he seems to relax into every step, the way he looks careless and easy when he moves. He chews his fingernails as he sits back down, studying the equation you're all suppose to be solving, but you can't find the will power to focus on. Stan looks natural, you decide, watching him gnaw absently at his messy cuticles. And you like that too. He looks like himself, like the Stan Marsh you've known since God-knows-when, and suddenly it occurs to you that you've been staring too long. Stan's eyes are looking back at you curiously, a little self consciously, and he whispers the question, "You okay, dude?" Honestly, you're not sure if you are. You nod anyways, and wince because you can feel your blood rushing up to your cheeks, in a sudden, warm flush.

Kissing is wet and sloppy, and the appeal has never made sense to you. You dislike the feeling of being breathed on, the feel of lips, damp and strange against your own. But your lips are tingling, aching and your heart is speeding like a train on crack because Stan and you are lying, facing each other on your bed and he's close enough to kiss. The moment this occurred to you, randomly as you and Stan spoke softly, closely like always during your sleepovers (which have lasted even though you are both Seniors in High school and your mothers keeps nagging that you are far too old for such things), the thought wouldn't leave your head. Now it's practically the only thing on your mind, and it's starting to become a problem because Stan would almost certainly not react well to being kissed by his male best friend, nor do you want to actually kiss him. You don't, because you don't like him _that way_. You don't. He's Stan, and you're Kyle, and you're super best friends, but it just doesn't work _that way_.

When Stan's mittened hand wraps around your own as you two sit on a low branch watching the sunset by Stark's pond, you are completely unsurprised by the electricity that runs through the connection and sends shivers down your body that have absolutely nothing to do with the cold. You are happy, so happy to be holding his hand that it doesn't even occur to you until the sky fades to a dark, purply blue that you are eventually going to have to let go. This realization causes you a reluctant sort of pain as you abandon watching the sky to look at Stan's familiar profile in the dusky light, but he doesn't release your hand after all. Not even when you both stand by unspoken agreement and begin to walk slowly back towards his house, still linked.

It's late in the afternoon and Stan has beaten you at another game of Call of Duty. His house becomes a light shade of orange at this hour, and it makes everything appear lazy and slow. You drop your controller and sigh tiredly; you neck has begun to hurt from hours of leaning forward. Stan glances sideways at you before turning and placing his warm fingers and the base of your shoulders and rubbing them in deep, sure circles that immediately begin to loosen up your knotted muscles. The heat from his touch is wonderful; and you are painfully aware of every tiny movement his fingers make against your skin. You bite your lip to keep from moaning, and as Stan massages your neck, working his way up from your shoulders, you feel your mind begin to wander into very unsafe zones. You sit up panicking, and get up to go. You apologize for leaving so abruptly, but you forgot you promised your mother you'd be at dinner tonight, and you'll see him tomorrow, okay? He looks confused, but you leave without looking back again.

You like him. You like Stan fucking Marsh and his fucking blue eyes that fucking grabbed your heart in a fucking chokehold. You like his smile that practically has you gasping for breath every time. You like the way it feels when he holds you hand or holds you in his arms because it makes the world seems fuzzy and warm and perfect; you like how everything just seems to stop when he's around. You like him. You like him and frankly, it scares the fucking shit out of you. You lay awake at four thirty in the fucking morning, even though there's a test in history the next day you didn't study for, you're pretty sure you won't be able to stay awake in class long enough to take it anyways, but you can't sleep now. You can't sleep because tomorrow you'll have to face Stan again, and you have absolutely no idea what to do about that.

Today is a bad day, you decide. The sky is too blue, it isn't snowing for once, and you passed that stupid history test after all, and today completely sucks balls. Wendy is talking to Stan by his locker; her pretty face and stupid pretty laugh make you want to cover your ears and scream and run away. But you can't. Because all you can do is stare and wish she would drop dead, but at the same time you realize that the sinking in your stomach has more to do with the realization that Stan isn't wishing for the same thing. She twirls a lock of shiny black hair around her finger and smiles like she knows what he's thinking, and you wonder why you even bothered to get out of bed today. Because the way he's looking back at her makes you just want to crawl under your covers and never come out.

You wish you could tell him "no". You think this to yourself for the millionth time, sitting in the stands freezing your ass off while listening to the band badly screw up the "fight" song as Stan scores another touchdown. You can't help but to cheer for him as he throws the ball down and does a little victory dance, and your heart seizes up when he catches sight of you, standing up and waving your arms to catch his attention, and he smiles, sending you a little wave. He looks happy that you came, that you saw him in his moment of glory. You decide you like football games after all.

You're waiting for him to finish practice so you can walk home together. Yeah, it's a little pathetic, but you're too preoccupied with looking forward to spending time with him to care that much. He's so _good_, you realize, watching him help Token off the football field. Not just at playing football, but he's an incredibly _good person_. Token twisted his ankle trying to tackle Stan. It looked really painful; Token yelled so loudly that even the coach (who was legendary for his mercilessness) stopped practice to make sure he was all right. Now Token's whimpering like an injured puppy while Stan supports him, limping, to the nurse's office. You can tell even from far away, that Stan is saying comforting things to him, just from the expression of concern and gentleness on his face. He's made that face so many times when you were sad or pissed off or hurt, and he was there to tease you into smiling again or to listen seriously until you had nothing left to say, or to put an arm around your shoulders and assure you with no words at all that everything was going to be okay. Really, he's the best friend anyone could ask for. He's caring and patient and just… far too good for you.

You open your eyes and realize that he is beside you (he spent the night again, and you were so happy that he wanted to stay with you…that he thought you were special, were worth spending his time with). He is lightly snoring, body heat radiating off of him and warming you all the way through. His arm is thrown across your chest, his dark bangs have fallen over his eyes, his face is squashed against the pillow, and a tiny bit of drool is coming out of his slightly open mouth. He looks peaceful and beautiful. You touch his cheek, pink with sleep, and sigh at the feel of his skin. You snuggle closer to him and fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing.


	2. Life Wants Me to Kick It

**Annnnddd my reviewers are so cute. So this is for you guys. FYI, this is probably going to end after three chapters, so enjoy!**

**Stan's POV**

Your date with Wendy did not go well. She looked beautiful, but you threw up on her, and she got pissed off and punched you in the face. It had hurt, really freaking bad, but you'd just apologized and shrugged your shoulders. What else could you do? You couldn't hit girls, and you didn't want to be punched again (Wendy has a vicious left hook), so you just stood there, while she bitched at you for being a lame boyfriend. The mood was pretty much set after that.

Playing video games with Kyle made you feel better afterwards, cause Kyle sucked and you beat him like ten times. Your friend had gotten angry and thrown his controller across the room, but he did that a lot. Kyle had quite a temper, but he never hit you like Wendy did. And you were used to his bitching. Guy-bitching was different than Girl-bitching, too. Less shrill. You had waited it out patiently, before challenging him to another game. You let him almost win this time, but then beat him again easily, and he'd called you an asshole.

The next day, Kyle had stared at you in class. He looked like he wanted to tell you something, but didn't end up saying anything. That made you kinda sad, cause Super Best Friends told each other everything, right? Why couldn't Kyle tell you? You wouldn't have made fun of him or anything…well, maybe you would have, but then you would have been cool about it and taken him out for sugar free ice cream or something and told him you loved him no matter what. And then he would smile and everything would be okay again.

So why wouldn't he tell you?

It bothered you for the rest of the day, Kyle's not-telling. He was acting weird too, all jumpy and quiet, like he always got before a big test. Did you guys have a big test coming up? You didn't really remember. You'd have to ask him later, cause Kyle was always better at remembering those things than you were.

That night, you guys have a sleepover. Sleepover's are cool, cause sometimes you guys talk about things. Today, there are definitely things you wanna talk about with Kyle, like what he hasn't told you yet that's been bothering him all day. But even when no one else is awake, and it's just you and him, lying in your bed close enough to tell secrets so quietly no one else will hear, he doesn't say anything. He gives you that look again, that look that looks like he wants to say it, but he never does. He just rolls over and goes to sleep. You listen to his breathing for a few minutes before dozing off yourself, a little disappointed, but too tired to do anything about it.

You decide in the morning not to push the issue. Maybe he really doesn't want you to know.

Later, you guys are watching the sunset over Stark's, and you're still wondering why Kyle won't tell you whatever it is he isn't telling you. He's barely talked all day, not even when Cartman called his mother a Jewish Oompa Loompa. He'd just glared at Cartman, not telling him that _his_ mom was an ugly crack whore…and that was weird. Kyle always called Cartman's mom an ugly crack whore when Cartman started in on Mrs. Broslofski.

So you knew something was wrong.

As you two watch the sun fade and the world get dark, you hold his hand to tell him that's it's okay, even if he doesn't tell you. Cause you know he will, someday, but you don't want him sad anymore. It sucks when Kyle's sad. He looks lost when he gets like this, and it makes you wanna punch stuff. You _never_ want Kyle to be lost.

You don't let go of his hand, cause you're holding on to him. You're making sure he doesn't disappear into whatever's eating him up, and you're telling him without words that you'll kick whoever's ass needs kicking, go wherever he needs you to, and say whatever he needs to hear to find his way again. Because Super Best Friends don't let each other suffer alone. And so you hold hands, cause that's like a sign of solidarity or something, right? Plus it feels nice and makes you warmer. South Park's way too fucking cold, and holding hands with Kyle makes it a little more bearable.

Kyle comes over after school that day, and you beat his virtual ass in Call of Duty (again), but he doesn't even get mad this time. He just sighs and drops his controller. Something must really be bothering him, for him to not even flip you off or call you a pussy for beating him again. You watch as he rubs his neck, cause you know it gets sore when he's focusing on something too long, and you reach out to help him. You massage his neck the same way you rub your mom's neck when she calls you over to help her get out the knots she gets after a long day of work, but Kyle's knots are bigger than your mom's. His shoulders are stiff, but once he relaxes, it's easier. You concentrate on a particularly bad one, working your thumbs under and around it to loosen up the tension, but then he's standing up and telling you something about dinner, and then he's gone. You scratch your head, wondering what the hell just happened as you watch him go.

Wendy apologizes for punching you the next day while you're standing at your locker, waiting for Kyle to walk with you to Calculus. She giggles and smiles at you in the way that makes you nauseous in a good way, and asks if you want to hang out after school. You say okay, and she giggles again before walking off in that cute way that girls walk.

But when you notice Kyle, he is looking at you with this betrayed expression on his face that you definitely can't figure out. He still doesn't say anything though, so you assume he's just pissed about that History test he didn't study for but probably did great on anyways. You know you did okay, because you copied off of him.

You're awesome at football. You burn up the field, the guys on your tail don't have a chance as you weave and dart right through their fingers. You reach over the touchdown line and throw the ball down in celebration of your victory and pump your fists in the air. You look for Kyle, wanting to share this moment with him, and he's waving his arms back at you with a huge smile you can see even from all the way over here. You salute him jokingly, happy that you've got someone like him watching you. It's fun to be good at something when he's watching you.

Token's hurt and you can't help but blame yourself. He was trying to tackle you, to pin you helplessly onto the grass and hold you down, but you twisted out of his grasp and he lost his balance. He landed on his ankle weird, and there was a horrible crunching noise that made you really queasy when he went down. You help him up and your heart clenches up whenever he makes that hurt sound your dog makes sometimes, and you just feel awful. Token's such a nice dude; he's also a more than decent player, and so you feel doubly bad for crippling your team. There's a big game next week, and Token's the halfback, and Cartman's his sub, so you guys are pretty much fucked there. Cartman sucks at everything.

Kyle smiles at you sympathetically as you pass him, supporting token, to the nurse's office. He shakes his head at you're downcast expression and rolls his eyes when you point to Token and grimace. He means that you need to stop being a pussy and recognize that it was an accident, and he didn't even need to say the words to get the message across. You just know these things about Kyle; you don't need to have an actual conversation with him all the time to know what he's thinking. You also notice that if he doesn't blame you…its somehow easier for you to forgive yourself.

You fall asleep close to Kyle again, and he seems happier. Whatever it was that was bothering him seems not to be bothering him anymore, so that's good. You're only a little curious as to what it was; if Kyle didn't think it was important enough to share, you trust his judgment. You sigh as you inhale his smell that's part him, but part you, too, cause you guys are together so often. It relaxes you enough that sleep claims you without a fight tonight.


	3. Epilogues Are For Pussies

**Errr hi. Yes, it's been forever, and I am a terrible person to make you wait this long, and if you've kept up with this story up until this point…you have my awe, my gratitude, and my eternal apologies for the delay. **

**This is unbeta'd so, warning right there.**

**Oh, and if anyone is of the belief that Stan's counterpoint is completely necessary, I'm willing to hear your arguments. Otherwise, this is the last chapter. Probably.**

**Peass.**

You can give him this.

Stan hasn't asked you for anything in years. Didn't ask you to tell him what's been eating you up since freshman year of high school when you realized you loved him. Didn't demand to know what made you snap at him when you just couldn't take it anymore, or what made you push him away over and over just to see if he'd come back to you because you needed that reassurance at least. He never asked for an explanation or a justification or even a reason, but he's asking something of you now. And what he's asking is that you to stand in front of his family and Wendy's family and all the people you've grown up with, plus a few you've never seen before that are distant family or Stan or Wendy's, and tell them how happy you are for the bride and groom today. He's asked you to be his best man on his wedding day. He's asked you to support him as he breaks your heart into a million jagged little pieces, to smile as he gives his life to someone else, and then to stand before everyone and say how wonderful it all is. He's asking you for a lot all at once. He's asking you to lie and to hide. It should be too much but with him it never is.

And you can give this to him, because it's what he's asking for, and you've always known that you'd give him the world if he asked for it. It very much feels like it is killing you to be here, to do this, but you're not going to tell him that. You can act like what he's asked for is an easy thing to offer, and that can be your second gift: a pass from guilt over causing you pain. He doesn't have to know how much it's costing you. He can take without remorse, because it should have been easy in the first place. It's not, not at all, but you'll make it okay so he can be happy. Somehow, somehow you will. For now you can just survive and smile. You'd sew your lips in place if you had to, to be here. Because it's what he wants.

So you stand by the alter like your leprechaun-green necktie isn't a noose you are hanging yourself by, and your crisp white tux (yes, _white_, its so tacky; Wendy's particular brand of psychotic comes with the worst taste ever in wardrobe, apparently) isn't made of lead and regret. No, today is about silk, linen, and eating your heart. You're even dressed up like a dinner napkin to celebrate the occasion.

"_The bride and groom have written their own vows. Go ahead Stanley, read your eternal promises to this woman, and declare your love before God and your friends and family."_

"_Uhm, what? Oh! The vows! Sorry, Wendy, jeez, ouch. …Okay, dude…here goes." _

He fumbles in his pocket for a slip of paper, smooths it out nervously, clears his throat. A tiny hitch in your throat you disguise as a cough surfaces. His eyes are so bright, shining with that sheen of happiness you'll never be able to offer him despite all you want to give him, and this moment, this moment right here sticks to your lungs and hurts so much, and you're not sure if it will ever stop hurting.

"Wendy. From the moment we met, I knew you were a special girl. I'm pretty sure I'll always think so, and I promise I'll always try to make you happy. You make me happy just by being in my life, and I love you a lot. I know I love you, because every time I look at you, my heart feels funny even after all this time, and I feel sick to my stomach, sometimes I even still puke, but somehow, it's in a good way. Without you, my life makes no sense...and with you…it only makes a little sense. But that's good enough. You're good enough, more than good enough. I love you, and I'll always love you, even when you're all wrinkly and gross. Because it's you, old, sick, whatever—it's the same you that you've always been, just older and not hot anymore 'cause you'd be eighty years old, and its just wrong to be hot at eighty years old. But I still want to be with you then, and always. I guess…well, maybe, Wendy…love isn't about how beautiful you look right now even though you look more beautiful than anything I've ever seen, or how much happy I am that you want to marry me and spend the rest of your life with me, even though the fact that you do makes me happier than I thought it was possible to be…love is about something much bigger, something that never really goes away. And I love you, Wends, you know I do, and that's never going to change."

You choke uselessly, tears stinging your eyes. You will them back, hate yourself for your weakness, but it's all so very _Stan_. So honest and clumsy and true. Wendy's blushing face and Stan's matching grin sicken you. He's vowed, in his own way, sure and simple, to love her forever. He's promised all he ever had to give to Wendy Testaburger in her puffy white gown and thick black curls. And she, rosy cheeked and beautiful…she's accepted. There's no room for you here anymore. You feel like you're crowding them, like your presence here is wrong in so many ways, and you just want to get out. You want to unhear Stan's promise, his stumbling vow filled with so much love it swims through him and fills the whole church with a warmth that stifles and drowns you.

You don't even hear Wendy's vows. You're staring at Stan, who is clasping his hands over his wife-to-be's dainty white fingers, and he looks reverent. Reverent and grateful; he's looking at her the way you've looked at him for nearly 26 years now, and you can't handle it. You know you can't; you can practically hear your heart cracking in your ribcage. You're held up, standing instead of breaking down right here, crumbling to a useless pile of brokenness on the alter beside him, and it's only because this is what he expects of you. You can't help thinking it's an awful lot to expect, even if he doesn't know that. But that knowledge alone, that this is what he needs from you right now, freezes the tears and screams in your throat and you just stand there shattering and shattering, and he'll never know it.

"_You may kiss your bride."_

"_Thanks, dude."_

It makes your already broken heart give a thudding, aching protest when he doesn't hesitate before taking her in his arms, kissing her like he's been waiting for it all his life. She tosses the bouquet of rosettes and baby's breath over her shoulder, and one of her feet raises off the ground, bent up behind her as she gives into him, arms clinging around his neck. He leans her back, so she is suspended in his embrace, and for a moment they are alone in their enthusiastic promises and love. The red satin pump she wears is vivid, like blood under her the snowy flounces of her skirt. The audience laughs and cheers and stands, clapping and tearing up. You clap along, hollowly, tears in your own eyes finally breaking through and coursing down your cheeks.

After about twelve seconds, they both jump back with expectant looks, and, right on cue, Stan pukes all over the priest.

You can't do this.

The guests settle into their seats, expectant faces turn towards you, lining the lily-white table cloth with eyes that remind you that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that you can't, because you have to. So you will. You push your chair back, the scraping against the hardwood, and tiny rattle of the china place settings twist your nerves. You numb yourself by repeating and repeating it will all be over soon, and take a deep breath.

Clinkclinkclick! You stand and tap your knife to your drinking glass (crystal, faceted, perfect), and it hums with vibration in your hand. You are doing this.

You clear your throat.

"Stan," your voice sounds so raw, you have to stop and steady yourself. You look at him, meet his eye. He smiles, encouragingly, and it pierces right through you, but you'll bleed over that later. For now, you smile bravely, tip your glass towards the happy couple; you knew your could subsist for however long he'd let you, but there's no more room for tenant farmers on land that belongs to a happy home now. This is goodbye, to a part of yourself, to a dream you never really believed in, but somewhere hoped for, because you can feel that hope dissolving now—you know, just know: this is all you can give him.

"Stan is my best friend," you recite. He nods back at you, and you have to look away before continuing, staring at a random point on the wall.

"We grew up together," you hope they can't hear how close you are to breaking, the tiny cracks in this thing you're trying to feel. You raise your glass a little higher and continue.

"I..I don't know how well any of you know Stan," you had a rehearsed speech, but it doesn't fit the moment dragging fierce, desperate, icy fingernails over your heart. It's gone, and left is only how you're gasping for air, but you'll sprint to this finish line before giving in. You said you'd do this for him. Everything you've practiced is useless now, and all you can do is tread water before completely falling under.

"Stan has been the best part of my life for as long as I can remember. He's been my partner, my confidante, my…my brother," you're no longer capable of stopping the raining tears, hot against your face, so you'll just have to hope they'll be misinterpreted, "but, you know. Things change. I'll always love Stan, that's not…that's not the type of thing that really ever goes away." You sniffle pitifully and wipe your sleeve, briskly over your eye, then sigh.

"But like I said, things do change. Stan's got a brand new life now. A new journey, with a beautiful new wife by his side," Wendy smiles at you and you dip your glass to her, "and I fit…I fit into a new place with him. He has a new partner now. And that's a good thing, a great thing. And I'm…I'm so happy he found someone as special as Wendy, who makes him as happy as she does," you shake off your invisible burdens and stand straighter to deliver the last part with as much courage and strength as you can. You want to give this, this last thing, to him, all of it; your last gift to him will not be a half-attempted farewell tempered with fear. You can do this. You can give that to him.

"Stan, you know I love you, man. You know that I want you to be happy—and now you are. Here's to your future, to love, to life, and to you. There's a lot to get used to, good things, hard things, painful things…but I'm not scared of them, and you shouldn't be either. We'll keep on, like we always have and somehow…somehow we'll make it through, and it'll all be for the best. I know that, and I know you. And I know you have a wonderful life ahead of you, both of you. Congratulations, Stan…I'm happy for you."

The world can hang for all you care, you've done it. The clap on your shoulder and the, "thanks, man," Stan pours gratefully in your ear mean you were strong enough for him.

And tonight, that's enough.


End file.
